


No End in Sight

by voidfins



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidfins/pseuds/voidfins
Summary: Napoleon Solo finds himself in a forest with a pack of wolves on his trail and no memory of how or why he's there. Where are Illya and Gaby? For that matter...where is he?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the first fanfic I ever wrote. I've edited and updated it a little, but it's still a little rough around the edges. The chapters are all pretty short because..well I didn't know what I was doing. Still, hope you enjoy!

Napoleon slammed to his hands and knees on the forest floor; twigs, bark, and other detritus took the skin off his palms and ripped holes in the black fabric of his pants. If it had been light out, he was sure that he'd see wet spots where his blood was seeping through the fabric. He was covered in cuts and bruises, but they were all blending together in one unforgiving ache. One particularly nasty cut on his cheek stung as sweat ran down his face. He thought it was from a tree branch, but he wasn't sure.  


His breathing had calmed enough that he was no longer fearful that his heart would beat right out of his chest, so he raised his head to look around. A dark forest surrounded him, the trees oddly far apart. It didn’t look anything like the woods he had grown up playing in, pretending to be Lewis or Clark, building lean-tos and forts. A layer of leaves blanketed the ground, crisp but not yet crumbling, but there were still plenty on the trees, obscuring his view of the sky even further. Early autumn? It disturbed him that he didn’t know for sure. His chest felt tight, but this time it was panic and not exertion making it hard to breathe. He tried to recall what he was doing in these strange woods and drew a blank. Where was Illya? And Gaby? Surely this was part of some mission, and they were nearby. Where they in the forest with him, or somewhere else…somewhere safe?  


In that instant Napoleon was sure that he wasn't safe. There were no obvious clues to danger. The only sounds were his own harsh breathing and the nighttime wind in the trees, leaves sliding and cracking under his hands.  


So why—  


A long, low howl rose from somewhere behind him and to the left. Napoleon froze, some primal instinct screaming at him to run and not to move at the same time. His breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t heard a that sound in years, not while spending his time in civilized cities with well lit parks and carefully controlled hints of nature. But it was hard to forget the sound of a wolf on the hunt. No matter what else he had forgotten, he was sure of that.  


Another howl sounded from somewhere else behind him, and another. He had the chilling sensation that at least one was very near. Were they after him? Why? Wolves normally didn’t take bother humans, not when there were easier things to hunt. His head was pounding and it was hard to think.  


Napoleon dragged himself up using the nearest tree trunk for balance, ignoring the rough bark grating against his already abused skin. There wasn’t time to reason it out now, wasn’t time to try and remember where his partners were. He stood frozen for an instant in the midst of the towering trees, with the hunting cry of a pack of wolves hanging in the cold air.  


Then he ran.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter. This one is also short, and has a slight cliff hanger (see end notes). I believe Gaby and Illya make an appearance in the next one! Stay tuned.

Napoleon stopped, panting, and leaned against the gnarled trunk of a nearby tree. The rough bark was slick with night time condensation under his fingers. He had to take a break—he didn’t really have a choice at this point. He was a top operative and in great shape, but it felt like he’d been running through the forest for ages. It was hard to move quickly. Even with the sparse undergrowth rocks and roots kept cropping up; it felt like they were actively trying to trip him. The pounding in his head was increasing with every laboured breath. Actually, now that he stopped to think about it, everything hurt, to varying degrees of agony.  


Napoleon took a shuddering breath. He needed to calm down and try to figure out what was going on. The howling had gotten more distant and less frequent, so he had a moment to spare. Hopefully. It had also probably helped that he had come across a small stream and followed it for a ways, walking in the water to throw the wolves off his scent. The icy water had been so cold that it was painful, but if the choice was between that and being mauled by a pack of wolves...well. There wasn’t really a choice. The downside was that now he was soaked up to his knees, and the night air was far from warm.  


He really wished that he could remove his wet socks and boots, but there wasn’t time, and putting them back on when they were still damp would be miserable. More miserable. He thought longingly of the warm sandy beach that he’d lounged on after a mission in Greece. He’d just have to hope that his body heat would help dry out his footwear. Hypothermia was a problem, but Napoleon knew that he didn’t have what he needed to combat it here, unless he stopped to try to build a fire or find some shelter. That wasn’t a possibility right now. Maybe he could find Illya and Gaby before it got too bad.  


He frowned, thinking of his teammates. If Illya were here he’d tell him to pull himself together. Napoleon could do that on his own, but it was always more amusing to let the Russian think that he was lollygagging. Gaby would just laugh—she saw right through him.  


He needed to know where they were—if they were in more danger than he was—but to do that he had to figure out what had happened. Napoleon closed his eyes and leaned his head against the tree, letting the feel of the bark against his skin ground him.  


He was pretty sure that he was in this mess because of a mission. He’d gotten in trouble plenty of times by himself—Illya was always quick to point it out—but this didn’t feel like the result of a little harmless pick pocketing. He still couldn’t recall many details of what it had been. Something about...Germany? A baron? That felt right. His fuzzy recollection of the maps they’d studied gave him a mental picture of a whole mountain ranges. He could be in the heart of them for all he knew, but it didn’t pay to be pessimistic when there was nothing he could do about the situation. That was something he didn’t understand about Illya: why make yourself even more miserable? Napoleon ran a hand down his face and tried to refocus. Something obviously must have gone very wrong at some point. Napoleon chuckled, then coughed, his dry throat burning. He was getting too jaded if this was just “very wrong” instead of “catastrophic.” Maybe he needed a vacation. Back to that beach. Right then he would settle for a warm bed and something hot to drink. And dry clothes. That wasn’t asking too much, right?  


His thoughts were interrupted when a distant howl broke the silence. His head snapped up—a reflex and a mistake, he realized as his vision wavered. It had been quiet for so long that he had hoped the pack had lost his trail, but it hadn’t happened. Napoleon pushed himself upright and set off again at a steady jog in what he hoped was the opposite direction of the wolves. If he followed the stream, it might lead him to a lake, and there was the possibility that a town—  


The murky darkness and autumn leaves had shrouded a steep drop. Napoleon didn’t even have time to shout as he fell down the slope, hitting rocks and trees. At the bottom, he lay still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get it? CLIFF HANGER? Sorry I couldn't help myself. Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some Illya and Gaby. And also a little plot.

Illya was getting impatient.  


To be completely accurate, he had been on edge and irritable since this mission had started, much to the exasperation of his two teammates. Part of it, he knew, was because Solo was being sent to case Baron von Baasch’s castle alone. Even if he wasn’t quite as terrible a spy as the Russian liked to proclaim, it was still unknown territory and the they were going in on very little information. Illya had brought that up with Waverly before they left, but their handler had just shrugged and told him that the mission was simple enough, and that’s what they were there for anyway—gathering information.  


He didn’t like it, not at all. This was how they’d gotten into trouble on other missions in the past. Hadn’t they learned by now that it was safer to have complete, accurate information? However, they had their orders, so he was trying to cope. Solo had gone off to his part of the mission cheerfully enough, with that ever present and ever irritating smirk plastered all over his face. Gaby had been reading what little information they did have on von Baasch, and Illya was pacing.  


The smack of a dossier hitting the oak desk in the room they had rented pulled him out of his brooding. They had set up in the small town’s only inn, and it felt oddly exposed. Everyone knew they were staying there—if not why, or who they were—and it didn’t help his rising tension.  


“That’s it,” Gaby declared, “I can’t take it anymore. I need to get out of this room before I do something regrettable.” She rose, grabbing her jacket off the bed and pulling it on. “And you are coming with me, before you wear a rut in the carpet.”  


Illya glance down at the floor before realizing that she probably didn’t mean literally, but that was all the time it took for the tiny woman to use her not inconsiderable strength to fling his own brown leather coat at his face.  


“I need to stay by the radio,” he protested, but Gaby shook her head decisively.  


“Solo won’t even be entering the castle until dusk. He wouldn’t risk breaking radio silence before then. And we need to do some reconnoitering of our own. Perhaps the villagers can give us more information on the baron. There’s not even enough in our dossiers to write an obituary.”  


Illya harrumphed, but he knew she was right. They needed to find out everything they could about the very private baron, and this was their opportunity. Besides, maybe a little fresh air would clear the uneasy feeling hanging over him. A little less reluctant than a moment before, he followed Gaby out of the room.

***************

The castle was named after von Baasch’s family, but the town was called Holzstadt. It was a very small town, even by rural German standards, and probably only used to house the servants and farmers tied to the von Baasch family when the patriarch of that house was the feudal lord of the region. It had only grown a little, and it was no effort at all for Illya and Gaby to walk the perimeter.  


After a little arguing, they had decided on a plan of action. Their cover was a newly married couple on holiday. Illya had rolled his eyes when he heard that. Really, Waverly was just being lazy now. Gaby had kept her German heritage as an excuse for the two to be touring the countryside. Illya was a Russian painter, another reason for them to be deep in the heart of the Black Forest, with its picturesque scenery. Napoleon had made sure to arrive separately from them, an American mercenary representing a mysterious buyer who was interested in what von Baasch had to offer. He would only be meeting von Baasch for performance’s sake, since they were more interested in what information could be gained from subterfuge. Illya and Gaby were there strictly for backup.  


For the immediate moment, the two had decided that Gaby would be the one to approach the people living in Holzstadt, while Illya would linger—non-threateningly!—in the background and pretend to have a poor grasp of the language.  


They wandered around for a little bit, Gaby engaging several people in conversation without much luck. Holzstadt wasn’t really big in the tourism industry, so besides curiosity there weren’t many excuses for the two to pry into everyday affairs. There were some signs that the war evident in the thin, bordering on gaunt, features of the locals, and he noticed that there weren’t many animals around other than a few old plow horses and anemic looking cows. The rest had probably been requisitioned for the troops. Or eaten in desperation. Illya noted that whenever Gaby tried to bring up von Baasch and his castle whoever she was talking to would either change the subject or make an excuse to go on with their work. It was frustrating, and he was worried that they were being too obvious. Gaby agreed when he said as much.  


“It’s not like there’s much we can do about it, though,” she pointed out.  


“Does not mean I have to like it,” he told her.  


They wandered around for another half hour with no luck, and returned to their room disappointed. Gaby picked up a book she had bought from the odds-and-ends corner of the local store, and Illya took up the newspaper.  


Several hours later, after dinner, there was a knock at the door. Illya raised an eyebrow.  


“Were you expecting someone?”  


Gaby frowned. “Not that I’m aware of.”  


He got up to answer the door, hand beneath his jacket on his gun. The woman standing there was the innkeeper’s wife, looking more than a little nervous. She was distracted, looking back down the hallway, and jumped a little when Illya opened the door.  


“Guten Abend, mein Herr,” she said, a little nervously as she looked up into Illya’s face. Then, in a thick accent: “May I come in?” Illya remembered suddenly that he wasn’t supposed to understand much German. He nodded at her and stepped back, opening the door wider and took his hand off the gun.  


The little woman, who was probably old enough to be his grandmother, shuffled in, stopping in the middle of the room and peering around.  
“Guten Abend, Fräu Bauer,” Gaby greeted her. Of course Gaby would know her name—she always paid attention to people’s names. Fräu Bauer bobbed her head, pulling on her apron in her version of a curtsey.  


“Please excuse disturbance,” the old lady said, speaking in English for Illya’s benefit. “I come to ask favor.” Gaby and Illya exchanged a glance over her head. This was rather direct for one of the townspeople. Gaby led her over to the couch and sat down with her. Illya sat in his chair by the window.  


“What can we do for you?” Gaby asked. Fräu Bauer hesitated, then gathered her courage and began.  


“I know is none of your business, and maybe you do not care, but I would ask that you take a message to the Polizei for me.” Gaby looked just about as confused as Illya felt.  


“Why don’t you go yourself? What about the local council?” she questioned.  


“He will know,” the old lady whispered, “and then we have no chance.” Seeing the blank look on both their faces, she seemed to steel herself, gathering her courage, and continued. “I have granddaughter. Beautiful girl, only fifteen. She go missing three days ago. Is not the first time has happened to villagers,” she said, cutting off whatever Gaby was going to say, “and will not be last unless outsiders brought in. My husband will not ask for help, but I do.”  


“Why do you say that?” Illya asked. Fräu Bauer looked him in the eye, and he realized how much courage it must have taken her to come to them, especially if, as it seemed, she was being encouraged not to.  


“Because Baron von Baasch is murdering us.”

***************

Fräu Bauer had left some time ago, after telling her story and soliciting their help, but Illya and Gaby were still discussing what she had told them.  


The old lady had explained how, since two years ago, when the younger von Baasch had taken over the lands, villagers had started going missing. There seemed to be no pattern; sometimes it was the old, sometimes the young. At first, the town had been up in arms, searching endlessly, especially after three went missing.  


“Then,” she told them, “we started getting their bodies back.” Their mutilated, horrific bodies. The head councilman had tried to go to the authorities for help, but he too had disappeared. Gradually, the townspeople became too frightened to do anything about it.  


“He owns us, and he knows it,” Fräu Bauer had spat bitterly.  


Illya and Gaby had tried to question her more closely about the bodies, but she was, understandably, unwilling to talk about it further than saying they looked like plague victims. This set off warning bells in Illya’s head. After the old woman left, he turned to Gaby.  


“It’s worse than we thought. von Baasch isn’t just selling weapons. He must be experimenting with weaponising chemicals, too.” She nodded, silent.  


It was past midnight now. Solo had been supposed to be back then. The uneasy feeling that had been hanging over Illya all day had turned to a heavy dread in the pit of his stomach. He turned to see Gaby pulling on her boots. She looked up at him.  


“We’re going to go find him,” she stated.  


“Yes,” he said simply.


	4. Chapter 4

Illya and Gaby stashed their jeep half a mile from the castle and went the rest of the way on foot. They’d had to wait as the day wore on so that they wouldn’t attract attention from anyone who may report to the baron. Illya had checked his watch dozens of times in the interim. They had both changed into darker clothes to blend in easier with the encroaching night. Gaby wore various shades of charcoal; Illya stuck with his traditional black turtleneck. He kept his gun ready as they crept through the thick forest surrounding von Baasch’s castle. Gaby now had her own pistol, but tried not to use it as liberally as Napoleon and Illya. She wasn’t incompetent—not at all. In fact, she was almost as good a shot as the boys, and more practice promised to make her rival them. But even with the way her life had gone, Gaby was still unaccustomed to perpetrating violence. Her partners had spared her the necessity so far.  


They came within sight of the walls. Illya scanned the turrets, windows, and gate, but only saw one guard making his way slowly around the upper wall, rifle slung behind his shoulder. Illya frowned. If security was this lax, Solo should have had no problem at all infiltrating the castle. Despite his teasing, the American was a good spy. He’d even startled Illya a few times, not that he’d ever admit it.  


“What is it?” whispered Gaby. He glanced down at her. They were crouching in the treeline. She gazed back up at him, worried but determined. It seemed that she also had a feeling that Solo was in trouble.  


“There are very few guards. It is unusual, especially for a tyrant like von Baasch.” The open drawbridge he could understand. The castle was medieval, and the trouble of raising and lowering the enormous hunk of wood was too great to bother with every time someone came in and out. Knowing Solo, he had probably waltzed right over it.  


“What do we do?” Gaby asked in a hushed tone. Illya hesitated. He wanted to find a more covert way—a safer way—for him and Gaby to get inside, but there wasn’t time. He’d have to pull a card from Solo’s deck and do something stupid. He grinned at Gaby, baring his teeth.  


“We go through the front door.”

********************************************

In the end, it was all too easy. Rather than making Illya feel better, this only increased his premonitions of doom.  


They hadn’t been able to see from their spot in the trees, but there was a guard at the drawbridge. Unluckily for him, his smoking habit was distracting, and the glowing tip ruined his night vision. Illya snuck up behind him easily.  


“Those things will kill you,” he informed the guard, who whirled and crumpled to the ground when his jaw met the Russian’s fist.  


“Show off,” Gaby muttered as she crept up beside him. Illya shrugged. Solo was rubbing off on him, but he couldn’t say he cared that much. It was rather amusing to see the shock on the guard’s face. He dragged the unfortunate individual to the shadow of the wall.  


The courtyard was empty. There was a stable to the left; Illya could hear the occasional nicker. He had heard that the baron was an avid hunter. Apparently he liked to do things the old fashioned way. There were several other doors in the courtyard. It was going to make things difficult if they were locked—there was no cover, and he needed a little time to pick locks, unlike Solo. The choices were limited, though. He picked one at random and hoped that it wouldn’t land him in the middle of the rest of the guards. Their absence was unsettling. Either van Baasch was a terrible strategist, or they were otherwise occupied.  


“Stay here for a moment,” he muttered to Gaby. She nodded, and he crept around the perimeter of the courtyard to one of the smaller doors. It moved towards him when he pulled on the handle. Unlocked. He waved Gaby over to him.  


Illya went first, into what turned out to be the kitchen. The room was less intimidating than the rest of the castle. The fire was banked, but it still warmed the space to comfortable levels. The stainless steel tools and cookware contrasted sharply with the worn stone of the walls, and Illya noted, to his amusement, a modern oven to one side. Apparently the baron wasn’t that old fashioned.  


A man burst through the door that led to the rest of the castle. Before the two could move, he laid eyes on them. He was a young man, pale with a shock of messy brown hair. He was also, evidently, clueless.  


“You,” he said, pointing at Illya. “I need you to get my bags to the car. Your dalliance with the kitchen girl can wait.” His voice had the soft, lilting tones of the Irish, and all the arrogance of a man used to getting his own way. He crossed his arms, waiting for Illya to bow and scrape. Illya felt Gaby tense beside him, but there wasn’t anything to be worried about.  


“Of course,” he agreed pleasantly, “but I think we will chat first.” He crossed the room in three steps and grabbed the man by the collar. The Irishman’s eyes grew wide, but he was at least smart enough to know that it would go worse for him if he made a fuss. Illya plopped him down in a chair near the fireplace.  


“Who are you?” the Russian asked.  


“Daniel O’Connell,” the young man replied, “and if you have some sort of vendetta against von Baasch, I say go for it.” That took Illya by surprise.  


“Why are you here if you do not like him?” he asked. O’Connell shrugged.  


“I came before I knew what he was up to, sent by my superiors in the IRA. We thought he had tech that could help us out, but the man’s a crazed bastard,” he sneered, “And I’ll have naught to do with his mad science.”  


“The IRA turning down a chance at chaos?” asked Gaby. She had come to stand beside Illya.  


“There’s a difference between chaos and genocide, my dear,” he spat, “and the bloody baron’s got the latter in mind.” The two agents exchanged a look that didn’t go unnoticed by the Irishman. “You don’t know what he’s up to, do you?”  


“Enlighten us,” Illya commanded.  


“He’s engineering disease. That in itself is bad enough, but there’s more. He’s obsessed with the human psyche. Decided that he’d add a little cherry on top. Somehow, he’s found a way to make fear a weapon. Told me that it’ll cut down on the chance that someone will come up with a cure. von Baasch has been doing all his experiments on his own bloody villagers. There’s half a dozen wretches down in the dungeon that should be put out of their misery now.” He spat to one side. “I want no part in it.”  


Illya considered. This was bad news. Waverly needed to know immediately, but he couldn’t just abandon Solo.  


“What do you know of an American?” O’Connell looked up.  


“Friend of yours? Not for long.” Illya growled and the Irishman paled, something that he hadn’t thought was possible with the man’s complexion. “Didn’t mean any harm. But von Baasch is a sick bastard. He found a litter of wolf pups years ago, trained them like dogs. Except, more vicious. He uses them to hunt.” O’Connell met Illya’s eyes, “And he’s not particular about what he hunts. He’s using your friend as an experiment, to see how long someone will last when you combine fear and adrenaline. Gave him a head start and set off with his damn pack of wolves. He’ll have caught him by now.”  


“No,” Gaby corrected, “he won’t.” Illya glanced at her. She looked even more worried before, but now there was anger, too. No one messed with their team. He turned back to O’Connell.  


“Where are all the guards?”  


“When the cat’s away, the mice play,” O’Connell shrugged. “They’re gambling in the armory.”  


“Good. You are going to leave, as you planned,” Illya told him, “and hope that we never meet again. If you try to alert the guards, I will kill you.”  


“Suits me,” the man said, “I just want gone. What do you think you’re going to do?” He asked.  


“Find our friend,” Illya told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this whole chapter was based off of a virus creating app called infection bio war.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon's back. Warning for PTSD and description of violence.

The first thing that Napoleon was aware of was the scent of damp earth and leaves surrounding him. He gradually realized that his eyes were open as the world solidified around him. Carefully, he rolled over. The sharp aching of his body reminded him of the situation.  


He was laying at the base of an enormous oak tree, the trunk blackened by time and weather. The strata of fallen leaves lay slick under his hands; he curled his fingers into them, trying to stop the world from spinning. All around the forest disappeared into a thick white fog that had risen. Tree trunks faded into the distance like sentinels or gravestones. Napoleon struggled to his feet. He hadn’t completely lost his sense of direction, but there was no way he could make it up the slope he had rolled down. To his right, the ground continued to run downwards. He decided that it would be easiest to just follow it down.  


Using trees as support, it was more of a controlled fall than anything else. He was so focused on not rolling the rest of the way that the first ghost caught him by surprise.  


Napoleon stopped to catch his breath and looked up, right into the face of a young soldier.  


“Brett,” he rasped, after a moment, “you’re dead.” The apparition didn’t correct him. It didn’t say anything, only grinned the wide, stupid smile that Napoleon remembered on his face after rigor mortis had set in. The mortar had fallen unexpectedly, and Brett had been winning the card game. He’d been happy, as happy as they ever got in the trenches. The ghost shouted something that he couldn’t hear, and suddenly Napoleon was surrounded by long dead people, soldiers he had served with in the second World War. They curled out of the fog, just as pale, passing through trees and brush without the difficulty that he was experiencing.  


Napoleon could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want these memories dredged up. He knew that he was breathing too fast, that he needed to calm down, but he couldn’t. He recognized the tent with the red cross painted on the side—what was coming would be worse.  


He started to run. It was a stumbling, slow run—at least for him—but he couldn’t outrun his past. Mortars and bombs started to fall, setting off silent, misty sparks and explosions around him.  


“They aren’t real,” he gasped, mostly for his own benefit, but it was no use. He could feel the heat from the flames and hear the screams of his dying comrades.  


He tripped over an exposed root, but clawed his way back to standing with a strangled sob. The phantoms were still ghostly pale, but Napoleon could see the bright red of blood covering everything. Jones stumbled past him, one hand reaching for support and the other trying to stem the steady stream of arterial blood flowing from his neck. Napoleon stumbled past Reckitt, who had a shard of shrapnel embedded in his left eye. He was still twitching.  


He fell to his knees. The ground had finally flattened out, and he had lost his momentum. Leaning forward on his hands, he was horrified to see that he was also drenched in blood. It covered his hands and clothes, bright and fresh.  


“This is on you, Nap,” grated Billings, a young private he had taken under his wing.  


“Rob,” he breathed. “There was nothing I could have done. Nothing could have prevented—”  


“You could have hurried back. You failed us, and we died.”  


“But—”  


“But nothing. It’s your turn now.” The boy grinned, a terrifying expression, devoid of emotion. “See you in hell.”  


Something snapped in Napoleon. For what must have been the thousandth time he gained his feet, driven by terror, and ran.  


Gradually the mortars stopped falling, and the bodies stilled. Spectors still lurked at the corners of his vision. He hadn’t died in that ambush, and he’d been running from it since. He wasn’t going to die in some morbid reenactment of it now. Whatever rational part of his brain that was still functioning told him that this was impossible, but it was hard to believe when dead soldiers occasionally reached out with gleaming teeth and rictor smiles.  


He hit water, instantly soaking his boots, socks, and the legs of his pants all over again. It was icy cold, but he had been cold for a long time. Slowly, he took in the enormous lake in front of him. He couldn’t swim across it. To go around it would take too long.  


And he was almost out of strength. Napoleon backed out of the water. He leaned down to grab a large piece of driftwood, almost falling. There was an outcrop of rock near the shore. He made his weary legs carry him to it and put his back against the rough stone. He knew he was still being pursued, although by what he was no longer sure.  


But whether it was wolves or the dead, he wasn’t going to die easily. He sank down to wait, makeshift club beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to upgrade the warnings on this story. I honestly totally forgot about this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Illya and Gaby. Thank you everyone for the great responses to this story! A few more chapters to go.

O’Connell had been loud and annoying, but useful. It reminded Illya of Napoleon, but even the American could be quiet and stealthy when he needed to. The Irishman...he was pretty sure “obnoxious” was his only setting. The man had told them before leaving that there was only one guard and the staff didn’t dare leave their rooms at night, so they wouldn’t run into anyone. Illya had shaken his head at the thought of such lax security, but he supposed that when you had everyone terrified into submission you could afford to be complacent. He had also told them that the baron had set off after Napoleon at dusk, alone. Illya was trying not to think of how easy it would be for a man on horseback to overtake one on foot. Even easier for running wolves.  


“How are we going to reach him in time?” Gaby asked him. She had to work double-time to keep up with his long strides. “We don’t even know where he is. Are you going to track him using footprints or something?” Illya considered for a moment. If it came to that, he probably could. But that was slow and difficult. There was one alternative they could try before they were that desperate.  


“We will try something else first. But we will not be able to catch them on foot. Follow me.”  


He led her to the stables. There was still a while to go before dawn, and the horses were all sleeping with their heads lowered. One of them nickered softly, perhaps dreaming of open fields. The stable smelled of fresh hay and warm bodies, a comforting scent. The baron may not care for the lives of his villagers, but his hunting horses were well kept.  


“What are we doing in here?” asked Gaby, softly. Several horses raised their heads, sensing the intrusion; their ears pricked forward in curiosity.  


“This is the fastest way to get to Solo. The trees are too thick to take the jeep into the forest. These horses are trained to run on hunts in those conditions. Von Baasch will be on a horse too, and if what O’Connell said about wolves is true, then it will be safer than going on foot. And faster,” he stressed again. Gaby looked as if she still had some reservations, but she nodded anyway.  


Illya quickly picked a small grey mare for Gaby. A black stallion, whickering impatiently and sticking his head far over the door of the stall, caught his attention. It was a large beast, but young. Maybe two years old at the most. The spirited animal could cause him problems, but he felt up to the challenge. And the extra bulk would be handy when they brought Napoleon back with them. Illya refused to consider that they might not be in time.  


Gaby stood back and let him saddle the two horses.  


“How do you know how to do this?”  


“KGB training is very thorough,” he answered. He didn’t add that it had been one of his favorite parts of training. The horses didn’t judge him for his past, and he was a decent rider. He cinched the final strap tight and knelt by the mare, weaving his fingers together.  


“Step up,” he told Gaby. She looked at him, and looked at the horse. Then placed her booted foot in his hands and sprang into the saddle, clutching the pommel for support. The mare wasn’t large, but Gaby’s small frame made it look so.  


“Alright?” he asked her. She nodded. “Just hold on tight and give the horse its head. They’re trained to stay together. I will lead the way.” He mounted the stallion, and they swept off into the night.

*****

The first place they stopped was back by the jeep.  


“What are we doing?” Gaby hissed. “We’re losing time.” She made to dismount, but Illya gestured for her to stay put.  


“Won’t take long,” he said, rifling through his pack. He found what he was looking for after a moment—a small, handheld device with a screen no bigger than his palm. “Solo has found most of my bugs, but not all of them.” The one that was left was an older piece of technology, but that was why he had missed it. It gave off a different signal than the more up to date bugs. He just hoped it was still working—he had planted it weeks ago, but had never tested it out. It was the back-up of a back-up. He would have turned it on earlier, but they weren't in range.  


Illya switched the device on and the screen lit up, a black background with green concentric circles. He held his breath and waited.  
There.  


In the top left corner, a small blip showed, blinking steadily. The bug was live. Now they just had to find it—and Napoleon. He swung back up on the stallion, who was pawing the ground impatiently, and held up the device so that Gaby could see the small dot that represented their comrade.  


“Got him.”

*****

The forest was rushing by quickly. Illya had to keep ducking to avoid stray branches. He didn’t care that twigs kept dragging at his clothes or leaving tiny scratches on his skin, not as long as they were covering ground. He turned periodically to make sure Gaby was still there, but he didn’t need to worry. The horses were trained to stay together for the hunt, and the little grey mare was doing an admirable job of keeping up with the stallion. Gaby, for her part, was hanging on determinedly.  


It wasn’t difficult to follow the tracker. Since the handheld device didn’t show terrain, it was more a matter of keeping the horses going in the general direction while avoiding natural barriers like fallen trees and brush. Mostly he just let the stallion pick his own way.  


It was a little later, when his horse had slowed to make its way around a tangle of bushes, that he noticed something on the opposite bank of the stream. They had been following it for awhile. Illya suspected that Napoleon would have followed it, or at least crossed it, to throw off his pursuers.  


He used the reins to pull the stallion up short. The mare followed suit.  


“What is it?” asked Gaby. “Why are we stopping?”  


“Look,” he pointed to the far side of the stream. “In the mud over there. Someone has climbed out of the water on that side.”  


“Napoleon?” She asked hopefully.  


“Probably. Von Baasch will be on horseback, like us, and there aren’t enough marks for an entire pack of wolves.” Gaby shivered at the mention of the baron’s hunters.  


“Does that mean we’re close?”  


Illya checked his device. The green dot was significantly nearer the center than it had been when they had left the castle.  


“Yes. We should be almost on top of—”  


A howl broke the relative silence of the forest. Another answered a few seconds later. The horses’ heads whipped up, their ears perked forward. Gaby looked around, alarmed.  


“What was that?” she asked him.  


“The wolf pack. They are closer than we are. Follow me.”  


Illya spurred the stallion into action again, trusting the grey mare to follow. His horse willingly flew forward—it had been trained to hunt with the pack as if they were dogs, and the sounds they were making didn’t scare him.  


The ground started to level out, the trees becoming further apart. Illya could smell dampness on the air—another stream? A pond? Or...a lake came into view as they broke out of the tree line onto an increasingly sandy shoreline. It faded into the background as a chorus of growls and yips filled his ears.  


He saw the wolves, and the man who must be the baron on a dun stallion. He ignored them in favor of seeking out Napoleon, who was backed against a pile of boulders, with a branch in his hand, and was very much alive.  


For now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation at last!

There were five wolves.  


Illya only had a moment to be grateful that the pack was small before von Baasch spat something in German and the pack turned on them.  


Illya spurred his horse forward with a shout. He took one down with his pistol and shot another in the leg, but then they were too close and he had to concentrate on keeping the snapping, growling jaws from dragging him to the ground. He whipped the butt of his gun against the side of a smaller wolf’s head. It fell away, yelping, but its partner took the opening Illya had left and leapt on him, knocking him from the stallion. They both crashed to the ground—he lost track of his gun in the struggle to keep the yellowed teeth from tearing out his windpipe.  


He could hear Gaby yell in the background, and a sharp crack. His vision tunneled. He took handfuls of the wolf’s fur and jerked as hard as he could, gaining enough leverage to get his feet up and kick it off of him. Illya’s hand touched cold metal and he was aiming his gun before his mind caught up with what the object was.  


Gaby had taken down one wolf using a rifle she had grabbed from the jeep as a club. The small wolf that had first attacked Illya was creeping up behind her, ready to pounce.She whirled, bringing the rifle back up, but Illya fired first. The shot clipped its back and it ran, tail between its legs, into the trees.  


Illya scrabbled to his feet. They still had to deal with the baron.  


Von Baasch was standing calmly, waiting. There was a snarl on his face that echoed that of his pets—and he had his gun pointed at Napoleon’s head. Napoleon, who was watching the baron warily, leaning against a boulder, roughed up and visibly trembling, but seemingly coherent.  


“I should kill you all for what you’ve done to my pack,” the baron hissed in heavily accented English, “but I will make a deal instead. You,” he gestured at Illya with his free hand, “drop the gun and back away, and I won’t shoot your friend right this moment.”  


Illya felt a growl building in his chest. This man was just as bad as Rudy had been, and he was tired of bargaining with criminals and murderers. His grip tightened on his pistol.  


“I have different plan,” Illya told the man. “You put down your gun, and I won’t snap your neck in two. We already have evidence of your experiments. No matter what you try, you won’t get far.” Von Baasch laughed, sounding like a man who had all the right cards in his hand.  


“I have connections you couldn’t dream of. You might have evidence, but I have money.”  


“Is that why all of your guards decided to pick a short sentence over loyalty to you?” Gaby asked, standing her ground beside Illya. It wasn’t true—they hadn’t even spoken to any of the guards. But the baron didn’t know that. The other man’s face twisted, and Illya could understand why the villagers were afraid of him. Cruel men didn’t give up what they considered to be theirs easily.  


“Fools. They will regret it in the end. But I tire of this game. Drop the gun, or I will shoot him.” He cocked it meaningfully. Illya hesitated, but this standoff wasn’t looking good. Every fiber screamed at him to get the baron away from Napoleon, but there was no way he’d be able to bring his gun up and shoot the man before he could shoot Napoleon. He tossed the gun a few feet away, teeth grinding together. The baron smiled.  


“Perfect. I think I’ll kill him anyway. I don’t appreciate people interfering in my business.”  


Illya lunged forward, heart in his throat, knowing he wouldn’t be able to reach them in time.  


“Don’t—”  


The sound of a gunshot rebounded off the rocks.  


Illya froze, he and von Baasch staring at one another. Then the baron stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. Illya crossed the remaining distance and kicked the gun away from his outstretched fingers.  


Gaby came up beside him, her face set in hard lines and a gun in her hand. She had dropped the rifle earlier, but von Baasch was so focused on Illya—the bigger threat—that he hadn’t realized that she also had a handgun. In truth, Illya had almost forgotten it as well. His heart was still racing.  


“You alright?” Illya asked her. She nodded.  


“I’ll keep an eye on this,” she nudged the baron with her toe, “go check on Solo.” She’d shot von Baasch in the chest, but he wasn’t dead. Yet.  


Illya turned to Napoleon. He had moved sometime in the past few minutes, although Illya hadn’t registered it, sliding down to sit on the ground, close enough to the water that the lapping waves were butting against his thigh. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything. Illya walked over to him.  


“Cowboy?” no response. He crouched down beside the other agent, moving slowly and trying to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible. Napoleon was still shaking, and some small scratches on his face were oozing blood. His dark clothing was ripped in places, revealing more cuts and bruising, but Illya couldn’t see any major damage. He reached out to pull him to his feet, but Napoleon flinched away, pressing himself harder into the rock.  


There was a voice screaming in the back of Illya’s head that told him to destroy whoever had done this, but he tamped down on it. Not helpful at the moment.  


“Solo,” he said quietly, “look at me. Come on, over here” He reached out, ignoring another flinch, and tapped his cheek. It took several long seconds, but Napoleon turned his head to stare at Illya. The Russian was pretty sure he wasn’t seeing him, though. His pupils were dilated, and his eyes kept flicking to something over Illya’s shoulder, even though the only thing there was Gaby and the baron.  


“Illya?” Napoleon’s voice was little more than a rasp. “They can’t be here. They’re dead.”  


He frowned. “Who’s dead?” He didn’t think the other spy meant the wolves.  


“They died. In the trenches. They shouldn’t be here.” Illya’s eyes widened as the implication sunk in. Von Baasch had used his fear gas on Napoleon, and from what Illya knew about the American’s past, he must be seeing something from his time in the army. It couldn’t be pretty. Anger rushed through him, but vengeful wrath wasn’t what Napoleon needed right now.  


“Come on, Cowboy,” he took his arm and pulled him to his feet. Napoleon’s legs buckled after a few steps, so Illya hooked an arm under his knees and hoisted him up. A dark haired head rested heavily against his shoulder.  


Gaby walked over. Illya raised an eyebrow in question.  


“The baron’s dead,” she said flatly. He glanced to the still form on the ground. Good. He probably would have twisted his way out of a sentence anyway.  
“Napoleon?” Gaby brushed a stray strand of hair out of his face.  


“He’ll be alright,” Illya said, answering her unspoken question. “Let’s go.”  


They had what they came for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing that Napoleon was conscious of was warmth. He thought he should be cold, for some reason, but the soft heat surrounding him seemed too real to be imagined. For several long minutes he just laid there, reveling in the feeling.  


Slowly, he started to wonder why it was so nice. He frowned as flashes of cold and wet and dark came back to him. Trees and fog and pain. The forest. The wolves. The dead. Napoleon opened his eyes, but the large wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling gave him no clue to his whereabouts.  


There was a distinct absence of pain that he didn’t really want to challenge, but the confusion outweighed it. He slowly levered himself to a sitting position, wincing when the movement pulled at cuts and bruises he had forgotten about. They were quickly reminding him of their presence.  


The room, presumably a hotel room, was dim—the shutters closed to keep out the mid-afternoon sun, judging by the quality of the light. There was a fire almost burned out in the fireplace, crackling occasionally behind the iron grate. That accounted for the heat, anyway. Gaby was sprawled out on the other bed, snoring softly. Her hair looked damp, and was spread out somewhat haphazardly across the pillows. She was going to wake up with a terrible case of bedhead. Illya was in a chair between the two beds, arms crossed and chin resting on his chest.  


Illya seemed to sense that someone was watching him, because he opened his eyes and looked up a few seconds later. Napoleon doubted he’d been asleep at all.  


“You’re awake,” the Russian stated in his usual blunt way.  


“It seems so,” Napoleon agreed. There were images flashing through his mind of wolves and trees and dead soldiers, but he wasn’t sure which were real and which were imagined.  


“What do you remember?” Illya asked him, watching his face closely. Napoleon shifted under the scrutiny.  


“Breaking into the castle. Getting caught. von Baasch forcing something down my throat. Not much after that.” Illya nodded, as if he’d expected as much.  


“We chased you and the baron through the forest, caught up with you before he could sic his wolves on you. Gaby shot him before he could shoot one of us.” Napoleon suspected that there was more to the story than that, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it right now. He kept seeing blood on his skin out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked down his hands were clean.  


“So there was no one else in the forest?” he asked hesitantly. Illya shook his head.  


“Only us and you and von Baasch. No one else,” he met the American’s eyes, “living or dead.”  


Napoleon looked away, towards the fire that was rapidly burning out now that it had run out of fuel. It seemed that Illya knew more about what he had seen than he had hoped.  


“Does Gaby know?”  


“Some,” Illya told him, “but not exactly what. “Waverly had a doctor flown in because you weren’t waking up. We dragged you out of the woods three days ago. There were...many nightmares.” And probably a lot of screaming, if the look on Illya’s face was anything to go by, Napoleon guessed. “He told us to wait it out. Gaby was not happy with that, but there was nothing we could do.” He shrugged.  


“What about von Baasch’s experiments?” Napoleon asked, hesitantly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The three days surprised him but at the same time it felt like a lifetime ago. Illya’s face hardened.  


“There was evidence enough in the castle. Over fifty bodies, some villagers and some not. Some couldn’t be identified because of the extent of the...experimentation. Since the baron is dead, he can’t be tried, but Waverly had a team come in and destroy everything. The Germans will have to decide what to do with the castle. Many of the guards are being tried, though is doubtful that they will be held accountable.” The Russian’s accent got thicker, Napoleon noticed distantly, when he was angry. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows.  


“At least that’s over with.”  


Illya harrumphed quietly. “We still have to discuss what happened,” he said.  


“What happened with what?” Napoleon asked. He was content to let it be. Now if only Illya was.  


“You know. I will listen when you are ready.”  


Napoleon cracked one eye. “You’re going to be waiting awhile.”  


“When you’re ready,” Illya repeated, as if that put an end to the matter.  


Napoleon decided not to argue with him. Maybe, someday, he’d take him up on the offer.  


“When are we leaving?” he asked, already half asleep again.  


“As soon as you’re well enough to travel,” the Russian told him. “Although Waverly said to take your time. Their boss must have been concerned if he was offering downtime voluntarily.  


“Maybe tomorrow.” It was warm under the blankets, and Napoleon didn’t want to think about leaving them right then.  


“Sure, Cowboy,” Illya said.  


He drifted off smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thank you all so much for reading. Your support means the world to me! I've learned the hard way not to start posting fics without having them finished first, so it may be a bit before I'm able to post again. The next thing will hopefully be an AU musketeers fic, if anyone is also interested in that. I also have a fanfic from The Martian that I may edit and post in the meantime.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. i wasn't kidding about how short. To try to make up for it, I'm going to try to post a chapter a day until I run out (8 chapters). Leave a comment and let me know what you think/other things you might want to see in fics for this fandom!


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